


Worse Fates Than These

by orphan_account



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (or the preludes anyways), Blood, Claustrophobia, Gen, Just Roll With It, M/M, McHanzo - Freeform, Old West Cowboy Ghost McCree, Spelunking, for angst and profit???, remarkably vague unspecified AU, sorry about the death but GHOSTS involved that sorta requires it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 00:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15131417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In the bottom of Deadlock Gorge, they say there was a wanted man, who escaped the bounty hunters after his head by diving deep into the labyrinthine maze of canyons.  They also say he never left.  It’s the stuff of campfire stories.No one told Hanzo, not that he would have stopped to listen.





	Worse Fates Than These

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leoandlancer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leoandlancer/gifts).



> I’m blaming Leo. 100%. I don’t even go here. Please forgive any gross inaccuracies, I’m just visiting someone else’s playground.

Out of ammunition did not mean out of options.

Hanzo waited, his back pressed against the rock, weight precariously balanced on the narrow ledge, and struggled to master his heavy breathing as he listened for the enemy’s approach.

Perhaps one minute, not nearly two, and it may well be longest he’d spent in one place since this mission started yesterday. Hanzo did not allow himself to groan as the uniformed man passed below him, raised muzzle carefully scanning ahead in the narrow confines of the natural rock. Ahead, not up.

Hanzo dropped behind him with less grace than his usual, too close for the man to do more than make a sharp noise of surprise. He looped Stormbow over their head, hauled back and rocked the bow stave sharply to the right. He felt more than heard the crack of vertebrae giving way, the man slumping back against his chest. The weight almost trapped him against the wall, and it took far too much effort to disentangle the bow and slide free.

He was out of arrows, but damned if he would leave his weapon behind.

Shouting echoed around the corner, “We got movement over here! Delta three, status?”

No answer.

Hanzo pushed past the corpse and continued wearily down the gorge. These men were prepared for the environment and the chase, carrying weapons, communications, rations, water, far more ammunition. All things he could use to survive. And the precious seconds it would take to find them would kill him more surely than anything else.

He had to keep moving. Stay ahead of the whisper of cloth and scuff of boots on dry earth behind him.

Daylight was slowly growing stronger, filtering through overhead at crazy angles. The warming rocks would help hide his heat signature from above. On the ground, in this mess of narrow twists and turns, visibility was always limited to the corridor one was in. He had a chance in here, far better than the open ground the ORCA crashed down on last night.

Then he came around a corner and almost crashed directly into a man. On instinct, Hanzo whipped the bow stave forward, an uppercut that would have lashed the taller man under the chin. Instead it whistled straight through, and Hanzo had to check his swing with a grunt of effort before he slammed it into the right-side wall.

The man raised his hands to show they were empty, “Whoa there! Easy, easy now. This ain’t a real good place to die.”

Hanzo breathed in sharply through his nose, considering. A gun, holstered. A heavily tanned American man, dark eyes, a head taller. Broader than him, enough weight that hand to hand would be difficult. And dressed nothing like his pursuers: this man was in shades of red and brown that nearly matched the dusty canyon walls.

With a strange cape and hat from another era.

And he could faintly see the scrub weeds through him. Hanzo narrowed his eyes, then set his mouth into a firm line. “I do not believe there is such a thing.”

He stepped forward, deliberately, and pressed on. He passed through the man who had no shadow with no resistance, without so much as a rustle.

Now behind him, he heard the man sputter, startled, “What?”

Hanzo glanced over his shoulder, catching and meeting the man’s gaze. “A good place to die.”

The man’s lips quirked into a grin, “Thought you meant ghosts.”

“You are there. Arguing with you that you are not is pointless.” Hanzo kept his voice low, so as not to carry. He had always been a fool enough to talk to ghosts, seen or unseen. What was one more, now?

He kept moving, ducking past an archway in the rock where another path connected on the right. That way went back, too close to pursuit.

He thought he could hear the faint jangle of spurs as the ghost followed. The _cowboy_ , because America was full of stereotypes and here was no different. “You, ah, you always like this?”

As if there were any other options. “Yes.”

Hanzo picked up the pace as they reached a stretch of relatively straight passage, forcing himself into a jog. His every muscle ached, and his throat was beyond dry. He should be sweating. He wasn’t. The liquid drying on his neck was too tacky. His, one of the dozen men he’d killed, it didn’t matter.

He was concentrating on continuing his forward motion so much he nearly tripped when the ghost passed him and raise a hand in front of his face.

“Hold up!”

Once he stopped, he could hear it, too. An engine, overhead.  He was grimly sure that wasn't an ally.  Anyone answering the distress beacon would be at least six kilometers to the east and north.  The ghost gestured to the side and Hanzo crouched quickly into the shadows he indicated, hopefully out of sight of the dropship and any video feeds.

The cowboy stood in the open with his head tilted back, frowning. “You got a lot of admirers, friend. They’re looking for you.”

Out of breath, Hanzo huffed, “No.”

The ghost turned back to look at him, drawling, “Now I might be dead, but I ain’t blind, and I never been stupid.’

Amused despite himself, Hanzo smirked as he tapped his sash. “They are not looking for me. They are looking for this.”

The cowboy’s eyebrows raised, and he rocked back on his heels. “Which is?”

Only his objective.

Hanzo pressed the shape of the drive against his skin one more time to be sure of its presence. It left a phantom ache against the bruises below. “Important. To many people. Too important.”

“You have a name?”

It wasn’t a smart move. If any of their pursuers could catch his side of the conversation. . . it could put many things at risk. Hanzo did not hesitate. “Shimada Hanzo.”

“Hanzo, then. I’m Jesse McCree.” The cowboy touched the brim of his hat, nodding. “Nice to meet you. Wish these were better circumstances.”

Impertinent. American, of course—he did not correct him.

Hanzo frowned, stiffening, and prepared to move again as the sound of the engines faded.

The cowboy, Jesse, if he chose to be so familiar, bit his lip, glancing back down the corridor, and stopped himself before offering a hand to Hanzo to straighten up. “They’re not far behind. This way!”

Jesse started off at a dead run.

Damnit. Hanzo had no choice but to follow, to push his legs to respond, to keep the man’s square back in his sights. They took the next left, climbed up to another that began some two meters higher, and kept moving on. Another passage. Three meters straight up a rock face.

At the top of another scramble up a gully worn too smooth to have good handholds, Hanzo found the ghost waiting for him. He huffed, impatient at his own weakness, “Why are you helping me?”

The dead man cast him a devil-may-care grin. “What good am I as a bandit if I can’t help another fellow outrun the law?”

Hanzo glanced reflexively behind him, down the elevation they’d just come up. No one, yet. “What makes you think they are the law?”

“Now you’re trying to have me on.”

Hanzo scoffed. “They are the law. That does not mean they are right.”

McCree’s brows raised as if he were impressed. “Might be we have more than a few things in common, Mister Hanzo.”

There was a story here. If it had been forgotten from history, that would be a shame, as good legends deserved to be told. To be remembered. Hanzo would not forget who helped him.

They had climbed out of the labyrinth, and from here, he could see the rough shape of a path he could follow between the bluffs. To safety. He would be ahead of his pursuers, and somehow, Hanzo thought they would not have quite so easy a time of it escaping.

The next step forward drove him to his knees.

He heard the distant bark and counted, clinically. One. Two. Three. Then no other sound but Jesse McCree swearing a blue streak over him.

Of course. The dropship. They weren’t just hunting him from the sky, they had landed more people. Fresh reinforcements, on the high ground. And a sniper, who had just been waiting for him to emerge.

The worst of all possible combinations.

He’d taken at least one hit. High entry angle; the impact had driven him down. His left shoulder was throbbing. There was the familiar sharp burn of a deep graze along the muscle of his calf.

Incredulously, he realized: they missed. He was still alive.

How had they missed?

Why hadn’t they taken another shot? He had sunk down, motionless. An easy target.

As he blinked rapidly to clear his eyes, desperately trying to think, he found the answer standing. . . not in front of him. Behind him. Jesse stood between him and the bullets, his own gun drawn, head down and dangerously still.

Somehow, the sniper couldn’t see him through the ghost.

If he’d lost visual after taking a shot, he’d. . . either try the same vicinity, to flush them out, or move until he had a clear shot.

Or ask for confirmation of the kill from the ground. Damn.

Jesse seemed to be following the same train of thought. He spat curses, “Shit! No helping it— gotta go back down. Can you move?”

Hanzo gritted between his teeth, pivoting and raising from his knees with difficulty. “Yes.”

Jesse carefully took one step, then another. “Stick close to me now.”

So close his nose should have been brushing the other man’s cape, Hanzo huffed agreement. He could hardly hold on to the ghost for support, yet his shadow was the only cover he had.

Sliding back down the rough slope he’d just come up sounded like a terrible idea. It was. His shoulder hurt worse than it should have, and he landed poorly at the bottom on his back, losing his breath in a whuff of pain.

Jesse hovered awkwardly, “Come on, sunshine. You can make it.”

Hanzo did not dignify that with a response, only moving slowly to roll over, to all fours, then to his feet. At his glare, the cowboy took the lead again, barely more than a fast walk, and it was all he could manage.

He’d noticed getting up from the ground that his robe was clinging to his skin low on his side. The dark cloth hid the blood, but now he could feel it: an exit wound.

If he made it out of this, perhaps he might finally match Genji.

Unworthy thought, and dangerous. He almost stumbled over his own feet. A distraction. He buried it along with any hint of the others who had been with him when they were shot down. To survive now, he must be selfish, and think only of himself.

Something he had a great deal of practice at.

Jesse’s voice sounded closer before him than it had been, jarring him from his thoughts. “Hanzo? Hanzo, come on. Just a bit further.”

That wasn’t the first time he’d said it, like cajoling a stubborn child. Throwing himself down in protest sounded more attractive than it ought to, but rebellion was something he’d never done well. He was a Shimada. He was made of steel.

He just had to keep moving.

  


* * *

 

They hadn’t taken this passage before.

He had lost his bearings long ago, but Hanzo would have remembered ducking to crawl low through a gap not half a meter wide, some three meters long. Midway, his quiver caught and his injured shoulder jarred back into rock. Pain blossomed like a grenade and tore through him as he collapsed briefly onto his chest, left arm unresponsive.

He panted, centering himself in the pain, until he could open his eyes again The coils of the dragon on his own forearm filled his vision. No stopping here.

He inched forward with one arm and dug in toes, until he could gracelessly roll free on the far side.

The rock continued overhead, but fell away below into a dip that even now held a pool. Jesse stood beside it, hands empty at his sides and an expression Hanzo could not name on his face.

Water.

Hanzo stumbled the few steps down to the pool, sinking down to his knees in the water. He could not remember a feeling more welcome than the cold seeping through to his skin. Cautions raised in the back of his head, that he had no guarantee the water was clean, and it did not matter in the least. It tasted heavily of minerals.

Hanzo swept the water across his face after a few swallows, forcing himself to stop from drinking his fill. More now would only invite disaster. And if he had a gut wound. . .

With grim determination, Hanzo rubbed his right hand across his left shoulder, and found two points of pain barely centimeters apart. Two hits, one exit wound. One graze. His opponent had a sharp eye.

Hanzo folded his useless arm against his chest, then slicked the wet hair back from his face. He took a moment to fill his canteen, then pushed himself back to his feet with an effort of will.

Jesse stood watching him, with his expression gone even more inscrutable. Hanzo flicked water off his hand, spine going stiff. “Problem?”

“You—” Jesse choked on his own words, a feat for someone who no longer drew air.

He followed to see where the ghost’s gaze was transfixed. The footsteps on the rock between the wall and the pool were dark. The water spreading away from him carried crimson curls like smoke.

If anyone did find the entry to the cavern, they would have to be blind to miss it. Hanzo growled low, turning forward. “Unfortunate. Easy to find.”

“Hanzo, you’re. . .”

“It’s not all mine.” He might not even be lying. The pilot had been bleeding badly after the crash. Metaphorically, there was a great deal of blood on his hands that wasn’t his.

Jesse slowly nodded. “I got a good hiding place back here. You can lay low, rest up.”

Hanzo held his gaze until Jesse looked away, gesturing along the water course. “This way, then up”

Of course it would be up. At least the water would be cool comfort.

Or it was, until it was pitch black, tight quarters, with barely a few inches above the water level. 

  


* * *

 

Up, at least, brought more light and more space back. He had never thought of himself as claustrophobic, and yet he found himself deeply missing the sky. Jesse led the way, picking his way across the rocks and up some route only his eyes could find. Through the water. Up a series of ledges. Behind a boulder that did not quite meet the wall it seemed to. Precariously along a diagonal sloping ledge as the floor fell away below them to the left.

In good health, it might have been an enjoyable exercise, as the distance covered was not far. As it was, Hanzo could only drive himself forward with leaden legs, heaving himself up one-handed. He did not look back to see if he left bloody handprints as well.

Jesse had stopped where the ledge widened back into a landing before curving sharply away, waiting for him again. It infuriated him on a level he no longer had the energy to express.

He was not done yet. He had not earned a rest.

His belligerent glare set the ghost back a step, and instead of moving ahead, Jesse hesitated and waved Hanzo forward. “Ah. We’re here. End of the line.”

Hanzo turned the corner, and stopped. They’d fetched up into an open space at last- an oblong cave perhaps a meter and a half wide and some ten meters long, where the stone leaned high and away overhead to a natural chimney. The ground in here was slightly different than the sand and stone of the canyon-ways, the shape of a dried-out tumbleweed fetched up against one wall, other small pale shards scattered carelessly across the floor.

Hanzo very nearly stepped on one before he realized what it was: fractured remnants of bones, bleached and ashen. There, too, a six-shooter pistol, rusted beside what once must have been leather long ago. He could match the shape of the gun to the one holstered at Jesse McCree’s side.

Hanzo sank to his knees, and could not tell if it was out of exhaustion or respect.

Jesse stayed at the entrance to the cave, face gone grim and unreadable. “What I said before. . . I was talkin’ from experience.”

He had never assumed otherwise. Hanzo shifted to rest his back to the wall, sitting opposite the tumbleweed. Beside the bones. “Then why did you stay?”

Jesse didn’t move, staring at the ground. “Regret, probably.” He breathed out heavily, nodded slowly. “Got a lot of those.”

Hanzo rested Stormbow against the wall beside him, rubbing at his left shoulder. He could barely feel that arm now. The cold and numbness were more frightening than the throbbing pain had been. “Regrets are a heavy burden.”

A wry smile quirked Jesse’s lips, “Spoken like a man who knows.”

“They are mine. I will carry them.”

Jesse took one step, then another to stand before Hanzo’s folded legs. “For how long, then?”

Exhaustion drained the emotion from Hanzo’s reaction. He let his hand slide down Stormbow’s grip to his side. Somehow the damned exit wound burned worse than the rest of his wounds together. “It is not for me to say.”

McCree dropped to his knees next to him in a rush, swearing sharp under his breath, “You idiot—you’re dying.”

“Yes. There are worse things.” Hanzo’s breath left him too quickly, and fresh blood trickled over his hand pressed to his side. Either a warm breeze passed through the crevasse, or the wound whistled. He chose to ignore both options as irrelevant.

“Worse than dying alone?”

With some irony, Hanzo arched a brow at the fretting ghost, “Am I?”

“. . . No.” Jesse’s insubstantial hand passed through Hanzo’s shoulder, turning into a slap of frustration against the stone wall. “I’m with you.”

Hanzo wheezed and grit his teeth tighter, “They have not found me. They have not found the drive.”

He hadn’t failed. Not yet. For a second time, Jesse nodded, “And they never will.”

“It is safe here?”

“You have my word.”

Hanzo believed that. He had no reason to do so, yet. . . perhaps there was nothing left of the other man but his truth. He had good bones. He must, if that was all that was left.

The irreverent thought made him laugh, and the pain that sparked was sharp and biting, almost leaving him light-headed. “Strange, that I trust you to be a man of honor.” He had to pause, dragging in a harsh pant, “When I am not.”

Jesse crouched close to him, his hands clenched tight on each other. His voice broke, “I’m not—I’m no hero.”

From close range, Hanzo met his gaze unflinchingly. “Then tell me who you are, Jesse McCree.”

“It ain’t real pretty.” Jesse lifted his hat, ducked his head and rearranged his hair. By the time he set the hat back on his head, he had composed himself, voice strong again. “But if it’s campfire stories you want, I can oblige.”

Jesse McCree had a good voice. It rolled along, rose and fell, painting images for the mind. Hanzo let his eyes fall closed, relaxed against the stone, and released the pain. He focused on nothing but the story of Jesse McCree.

  


* * *

 

Time slipped sideways. He came back to awareness as something damp hit his face. One drop, then another, cool. Rain, Hanzo realized in surprise as his head rolled back to look up. The stone chimney framed a lopsided square of grey. “Open sky.”

Sitting deceptively casual halfway between him and the entrance—standing watch—Jesse hummed acknowledgment. “Sun only touches these bones once a day.”

There was no sign of the sun now. Nor stars, nor moon. Only clouds. Perhaps that was fitting, that his last view of freedom be nothing but angry grey over the bands of rocks, layer upon layer of red and brown like old blood. He had seen enough of it in his life. He wanted to ask how long it had been, but the words wouldn’t come.

Jesse met his gaze and answered, “Only been a few hours. They ain’t given up yet.”

Jesse stood and tilted his head back to look up at the darkening sky, silhouetted briefly by a flash of light. He continued almost as an afterthought, “Might have to soon.”

Hanzo made no move to join him; his feet would not hold him now. There would be no more running. He made a questioning noise rather than a true word, his throat closing up. Whatever would keep Jesse talking.

“Real bad idea, to be in the canyons when there’s a storm coming.” Jesse swept off his hat and gestured wide, indicating the length of the whole canyon they way they came. “Storm like this will send water tearing like a stampede through the bends, washing everything out before it.”

The wind was picking up, sending sheets of water before it and howling across the gap overhead. Hanzo leaned his head back against the wall to watch. “Impressive.”

Jesse sat next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and Hanzo could almost imagine the rain against him grew less cold. “Always sounded like wolves to me. Howling and baying on a wild hunt.”

“No.” Thunder rumbled through the rain, which almost blended into another sound so deep that Hanzo could almost feel it in his bones. Familiar. Defiant. “Storms are the voice of dragons.”

Jesse tipped his hat to the side, considering him side-long. “Dragons. Not something I’m used to ‘round here. They angry?”

“No.” Hanzo found himself smiling as the roar grew louder and louder. “Wild. Proud. They will never be tamed.”

Too many words. He ran out of breath and coughed weakly, pain wracking through his gut at each motion. Overhead, lightning cracked through the sky, fierce and strong, leaving white flashes behind his eyes. His chest felt like it was crushed, his own ribs a vise. The white turned into darkness as the thunder rolled, ozone sharp around them.

He could see nothing.

Feel nothing.

Hear nothing.

Not even Jesse McCree.

A shame, that he had found company and lost them to the storm.

  


* * *

 

His vision cleared like fog lifting.

White light crackled around him, sparked warm between his fingers, and he felt much lighter, quicker, unburdened, for the first time in many, many years. He stood beside Jesse, not where they were before at his tomb, but at the top of a bluff, looking down across the labyrinth of canyons.

The squall had moved on, now a dark smudge tearing its way across the horizon. In its wake, light began to break through from above, the noon sun burning through the clouds.

He could feel that the storm had swept the place clean. No enemies remained. Only the familiar blue shapes of his dragons, one hovering over each shoulder.

And Jesse McCree gaping at him like a mad man.

Hanzo let his left hand drift across one immense snout, feeling the smooth surface and the bite of the edges against his fingers. It felt as familiar as the grip of Stormbow.

Jesse cleared his throat, lifted off his hat, running his hands through his hair before setting it back straight. “So. Dragons. Impressive sells it short.”

Hanzo tipped his head back to consider the dragon to his right, setting his right hand against the smooth arch of throat. “It runs in the family.”

Greatly daring, Jesse stepped forward between the two guardians with a dazzling grin. “Shimada Hanzo. I reckon you owe me a story.”

Hanzo furrowed his brow at him, “I don’t know how to start.”

He was not a natural storyteller. Jesse laughed at him, extending his hand. “That’s all right, sunshine. We got time.”

Hanzo took it, warm and solid, and watched the sparks crackle around their knuckles in fascination. ‘How much time?”

“Long as you need.” Jesse stepped in closer, turning out to look across the landscape with him. The noon sun set the shadows of the canyons into sharp relief, caught the red rocks ablaze against the fresh-scrubbed blue of the sky. “Forever, if you want it.”

“Hmph.” Hanzo turned his head to hide a smile. “There are worse fates.”


End file.
